


To Which the Flesh is Heir

by Sarren



Category: The Fixer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Finch is full of good advice. Whether John wants to hear it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Which the Flesh is Heir

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LithiumDoll for Yuletide 2008
> 
> Thank you to my awesome, wonderful betas, Jody, special_trille and zebra363.
> 
> Quote by Epicurus.
> 
>  _WARNING: Non-graphic attempted rape._

_Thus that which is the most awful of evils, death, is nothing to us, since when we exist there is no death, and when there is death we do not exist._

The sound of his own breathing is harsh in his ears. He flattens himself against the side of the house, taking a deep calming breath, forcing himself to relax his grip on the gun.

"There's one more," Patrick says, behind him.

"I know," John says.

"No, you know about the one waiting for you in the hall." John doesn't have to look at him to know he is wearing the smug expression that makes John wish that Patrick were real, so he could wipe it off his face.

"You could try," Patrick says, laughing openly at him now.

"Where's the other one then?" John says, ignoring him.

"Creeping up behind you, actually."

John spins and fires, and the man goes down silently, a neat hole in his forehead, a look of surprise on his face.

"Thanks for the warning," John says with heavy sarcasm, willing his heartbeat to slow down.

"You're at your best when you don't have time to think too much."

"You sound like Lenny."

"No need for insults," Patrick says, grinning widely. John glares at him. Patrick nods towards the house. "You going to finish the job, or what?"

John takes the hall guy down smoothly, maybe showing off a bit. Patrick laughs at him.

"According to our intelligence, Holden was still in Warsaw," Lenny says later, when it is all over, glaring at the body.

John just wants to go home. "Are we done?"

"What do you think?" Lenny arches an eyebrow.

"I think Calum'll have the dinner on."

"My, my, aren't we domestic."

John stares at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Lenny says blandly. "It's just good to see that you're settling in, is all."

"I wouldn't exactly say that," John says, not willing to admit anything of the sort, not least to himself.

The first time he sees Patrick, John nearly shits himself, so it's kind of appropriate that he's in the bathroom. He's just looked down to wash his hands and when he looks up again he sees, in the mirror, Patrick standing behind him, staring balefully. "No," he says, and closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them again, Patrick is gone, and he lets out the breath he was holding. He grabs a couple of paper towels to dry his hands and turns around, and then freezes, heart in throat, because Patrick is standing there, large as life.

"You're dead," he says, numbly.

Patrick glares at him. He doesn't look dead. He looks like he did when John first met him, at the point of a gun.

John rubs his hands over his eyes. When he looks again, Patrick is still there.

"Right," he mutters, strangely calm. "I'm cracking up, then."

And then suddenly Patrick grins at him. "Sorry man, I know it's a cliché, appearing in the mirror and all, but I couldn't resist. Did I scare you?"

"You could say that," John says, willing his heartbeat to slow down. "My point stands, however. You're dead. Therefore you're not real. Therefore I am going crazy."

"You have to be a bit crazy to do our job."

"Well, you'd know all about that."

Patrick assumes a hurt expression. "Now, is that a nice thing to say?"

"Sorry," says John, automatically. He rubs his eyes again. "Great, now I'm apologising to the figment of my imagination."

Patrick nods towards the door. "We can talk about this as much as you like another time, but you better get back out there, or Lenny'll start wondering what you're getting up to."

"Or," John says pointedly, "you could go away now and never come back."

"Oh John...John...John." Patrick shakes his head reprovingly. "A fella could get the impression you don't like him."

"I like you just fine the way you are. Dead."

"Good one," Patrick says. He grins widely.

The door opens and John looks over automatically. A kid walks in. He stops abruptly when he sees John looking at him, then sidles cautiously past him to the urinal.

John turns to the sink and splashes water on his face. When he looks warily into the mirror again, the space behind him is empty. He stares intently into his own eyes for a long time, wondering if he's starting to lose it, finally.

Lenny looks up as John sits down again. "They have medication to help with constipation these days, you know," he says considerately.

"Thanks," John replies. He could do with a coffee, he thinks, and signals for the waiter.

"Nothing for me, thanks." John's head whips around and he stares at Patrick, sitting right there at the table with them, smiling amiably at John.

"What is it?" Lenny puts down his cup, looking concerned.

John drags his eyes away from Patrick. "Nothing."

Lenny is still looking at him.

"I just thought for a second I saw someone I knew, that's all."

"Anyone we need to be concerned about?"

"No," John says. "No." His coffee shows up then, to his relief.

Once the waiter has gone, Lenny leans forward slightly. "Richard Johnson, civil servant," he says, "up to his eyeballs in corruption. We knew about it, of course, but he's very well connected, so we've been biding our time. Unfortunately, his Albanian paymasters have upped the ante. Apparently they asked for more than he was prepared to do, and Johnson baulked. Now they're threatening to release footage of him getting up to all sorts of kinky stuff with underage prostitutes," Lenny says, mild distaste in his voice. "He's about to crack. The fall out for the government could be...extreme. Could make all the difference at election time."

John's tempted to ask why they care about keeping this government in power, but then he realises that he doesn't care enough for it to be worth listening to one of Lenny's lectures.

"Make it look like suicide, but not one of these auto-asphyxiation jobs. They lack...finesse," Lenny says wryly.

John stares at him. "Right," he agrees, "because we're classy murderers."

Lenny ignores that. "And because I realise these things are important to you," he goes on earnestly, "let me assure you that he's a nasty piece of work, and no one will miss him."

"Oh, yeah?" Patrick says. "Ask him about the whore Johnson keeps in a flat in Kensington."

John glances at him, then realises what he's doing and looks away. "What about a mistress?" he asks Lenny.

There is flicker of surprise in Lenny's eyes, gone in a blink. "Now why would you ask that?" he muses, sipping his tea. "Rose-"

"Rose hasn't said anything," John interrupts. "I just figured he'd have one. I mean, don't they all?"

"Not bad reasoning. You're actually starting to use your brain," Lenny looks at him approvingly, like John imagines he would a child, or a favourite pet. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Thanks," John says dryly.

"Anyway, the mistress doesn't know anything, certainly not enough to embarrass the government."

"See, I told you Lenny was weak." Patrick leans back in his chair, making it tilt precariously. "We should do the whore too, just in case."

John flinches. He deliberately doesn't look at Patrick as he says, "Glad to hear it."

"It's good to see you're taking an interest in your job," Lenny says approvingly.

He's feeling restless and finds himself knocking on Rose's door. It's becoming a habit. She doesn't look surprised to see him, even though it's nearly midnight. He's fairly sure she does like him, that she's not just playing some deep game with Lenny. He doesn't know that for sure though, and Patrick smirks knowingly at him from where he's sprawled in the armchair, idly playing with his gun. John's subconscious is a very disturbing place, apparently.

Rose hands him a glass of wine and settles next to him on the couch, pulling her robe around her. "So, to what do I owe the honour?" she asks, looking at him from under her eyelashes.

John shrugs. "No reason."

She sips her wine. "Really."

"I'm sorry, I should have called first."

"You should. But I'll let it go, just this once," Rose says, playfully.

"You're _in,_ there," Patrick crows. John ignores him.

"I didn't realise it was so late." She looks tired. "Were you asleep?" he asks diffidently.

"No, I was just reading."

They both glance at the book on the table.

"Anything good?"

"I don't know yet. I'll let you know."

"Maybe I can borrow it."

"Sure."

It feels awkward. John takes a sip of his wine, trying to think of something to say.

Rose breaks the silence. "I'm glad you dropped by," she says, leaning towards him. John's not sure what to do - half afraid he's reading the signals wrong, half afraid he's not.

The phone rings.

"Want to bet that's Lenny?" Patrick says. John starts. He'd forgotten Patrick was there.

Rose smiles apologetically and leans away to pick up the phone from the coffee table.

John stares pointedly at Patrick. "Go away," he mouths at him while Rose's attention is diverted.

"That was Lenny," Rose says, tossing the phone back onto the table. "He's on his way. You should go."

"You don't want him to know that we..." John gestures between them, not sure what in fact they are.

"Oh, believe me, he knows we." Rose mimics his gesture, smiling slightly. "But you're not involved in this case. By all means stay, if you want. I'm sure Lenny will find something for you to do."

"No, that's okay."

Rose shows him out. She kisses him on the cheek, but it doesn't feel like a brush off. It feels like a promise.

John is half-heartedly playing that boxing game on the TV. John can't really see the attraction, but it's a distraction at least. Rose is being secretive again, and that's never a good sign. It messes with his concentration. He keeps wondering what she's doing. Who she's doing. He knows better than to ask for details though. Rose doesn't trust him not to interfere. Fair enough. He doesn't trust himself.

"Thought maybe you'd gone for good," he says.

"Are you kidding?" Patrick says, his eyes flickering in that disconcerting way they do when he's distracted, when he has a lot on his mind. "Having too much fun, aren't we?"

"It's been over a week," he feels the need to point out.

"Has it?"

"Where do you go?" John wonders. "You know, when you're not hanging around annoying me?"

"Nowhere." Patrick's face twitches. "At least, I don't think so. I don't know."

John rolls his eyes. "What am I even doing, talking about this with you? You're not real."

"Aren't I?"

Footsteps thud down the stairs.

"I thought I heard voices," Calum says, his eyes darting around the room nervously. John thinks Calum suspects Lenny's here. After all, who else would be visiting John?

"No."

Calum finally notices the gloves on John's hands. His face lights up. "I'll get the other gloves," he says. "We can fight each other. It'll be magic."

"Why do we need the game for that?" John says dryly. "I could just knock you down right now. Cut out the middleman."

"What is it with you and Lenny threatening to beat me up, anyway," Calum says cheerfully. He starts the game up in two player mode and gets a couple of good punches in before John works out which player is his, and starts to beat the shit out of Calum's.

Patrick snorts. "And this is what's supposed to stop you ending up like me, is it?" he says, mocking.

"What?" John's head jerks around.

Patrick's disappeared. When he turns back, his character is down and Calum's arms are raised in victory. "Yeahhh," he gloats. He is bouncing with excitement. "Go again?" Calum asks eagerly.

"Why not?" It's not like John has anything else much to do.

John's walking past a stairwell when hears sobbing. At first he doesn't pay attention, a person's misery is their own business, but then a certain quality of it catches his attention: hopelessness, terror. He stops. Listens. He can hear other sounds now, of movement, of low laughter, voices.

He eases open the door. The voices are clearer now. They're on the next floor down by the sounds of it. Quietly he makes his way down.

The girl is unsuccessfully trying to hold her torn blouse together with one hand and her skirt down with the other. She can't be more than fourteen. One of the men is behind her, preventing her from moving with her ponytail wrapped around his hand, her head twisted at a cruel angle. His other arm is wrapped around her body, to hold her still. Her knickers are a crumpled flash of red on the edge of a stair. The other man is opening his pants. He's taking his time, enjoying the way the girl whimpers, the way she kicks feebly, the way her eyes roll with terror as she sees what he's doing.

A sense of inevitability steals over John, the same as when he read Jess's letter the first time. There's no doubt in his mind. No hesitation.

He slams into the would-be rapist and they hit the wall, the man grunting with surprise. The man is huge and John is hampered by the close confines, the potential for a misstep, and the man has his hands on John's shoulders and is bearing down, squeezing painfully. John starts to go down under the pressure. He manages to stagger backwards, into the open stairwell, the man going with him and then John twists away, and pushes. The man goes headfirst down the stairs, ending up against the far wall. From the position of the body it's clear his neck is broken.

A ghost of a movement behind him and John spins in time to see the flash of a blade coming towards him. He dodges, but his ankle turns under him and he staggers back. The knife-man is grinning meanly, holding the blade confidently, not waving it about or showing off. John doesn't underestimate him. John sidles to the side, favouring his leg more than he needs to. The man takes the bait and lunges to that side. John meets his rush, closing with him, the knife trapped between them. John grasps the man's knife hand, trying to force it away from him even as the man tries to drive it into John's stomach. They are face to face. Whatever the man sees in John's eyes makes his smile fade. For a moment he falters and that's enough for John. He twists the other man's wrist and pushes, feeling the knife break the skin, seeing the man's eyes widen with realisation. His eyes plead with John now.

John has no mercy.

John lets the body fall. He turns to the girl, crouched in the corner, her breath hiccupping, her eyes fixed on him.

"Shh," he says. "It's over now. You're okay." Her eyes dart towards the body on the floor and return to stare at him. He holds out a hand. She stares at it. She cowers when he leans closer.

Fair enough, he thinks. He backs off. "You live around here?" he asks gently.

The girl nods jerkily.

"Think you can get yourself home?"

She nods again.

"Okay then."

Very slowly, she pushes herself to her feet, using the wall as support. She takes a step towards the stair.

"Don't forget your..." John gestures towards the underwear over in the corner. Eyeing him warily, the girl snatches them up then darts up the stairs, tripping once, and disappears. After a minute John hears a door slam a couple of flights up.

"Should have minded your own business," Patrick says, sadly.

John turns. Patrick is sitting on the stairs just above eye level, shaking his head regretfully.

"What do you care?" he snarls, and that's when the cops decide to show up.

Back at the station John tells them what happens. He gives a vague description of the girl, but doesn't mention the St Christopher's medal she was wearing, or the blue streak in her hair. He figures she's not going to want to come forward, and he doesn't blame her. In this neighbourhood the first thing you learn growing up is not to talk to the cops; it's the only way to survive.

He's not surprised to find out the men he killed were local thugs with multiple ASBOs against them. He doubts the cops'll make much effort to investigate. As far as they're concerned it's an open and shut case. Drug deal gone wrong, most likely.

And John's got form for murder already.

Three days later and he's still kicking his heels in the cells. Patrick's on his fiftieth rendition of `99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall' and John's about ready to kill himself just to shut Patrick up.

He wonders why he hasn't been charged yet.

"Something's going on," Patrick stops singing to suggest. John thinks he's right.

Not that he's in a hurry for them to get on with it. John doesn't want to go back to prison. Patrick was right. He's got too much to live for.

"Told you so."

"If you're not going to help, you can fuck off, all right?" John mutters.

"Help? What do you think I can do? I'm not real, remember."

John doesn't answer. He doesn't want the cops to think he's a nutter.

"You're hoping Lenny'll come to the rescue like a knight in shining armour, aren't you," Patrick jeers. He is sitting on the floor throwing a ball against the opposite wall. It reminds John of an old war movie he saw once. "It's not going to happen, all right? He's not going to get his hands dirty. Stop thinking you're important. He'll abandon you just like he did me."

"Shut up!" John lunges to his feet, and strides over to the wall and pushes against it with his hands, his head down.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, mate. You're all alone. You're going to have to get yourself out of this if you want to see your family again."

"I said, shut up!" John rounds on Patrick, fists clenched.

Patrick just looks at John with eyebrows raised. John spins away and goes to sit on the bed.

Patrick is mercifully silent for a while. John stretches out on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, taking even breaths as his thoughts stop whirling and battering against each other and the anger seeps away.

Then Patrick's head turns towards the door. "Well, well," he says softly. "Appears I was wrong, doesn't it?"

The door opens. Lenny steps into the room and looks around disdainfully, his eyes coming to rest on John.

"I was going to leave you here for a while longer," Lenny says finally, "in the hope of teaching you to think before you act, but then I decided it was probably a lost cause, so..." He shrugs.

John stares at him, speechless.

Lenny looks at him quizzically. "Well, come on then," he says. "Unless you've decided you prefer prison to our little arrangement after all?"

"No!" John leaps up, then hesitates. He clears his throat. "So, I'm just free to go? That's it?"

"Well, it was a little more complicated than that. Rose tracked down your damsel in distress and we were able to persuade her to come forward and clear your good name."

"Persuade?" John doesn't like the sound of that.

"We didn't use baseball bats or electrodes, if that's what you're thinking."

"Sorry," John mutters.

"After all, why resort to violence when bribery would be just as effective? In this instance, enough money to allow her and her family to make a new start somewhere more congenial. Personally, I think they'll spend the money on one of those new plasma TVs that are so popular nowadays."

"Oh. Well...thanks."

"Oh, no need to thank me. The money will be deducted from your pay."

"I get paid?" John asks, moving to the door.

Lenny sneers at him. "You feel that you are inadequately compensated for the work that you do?"

John figures there's no way this conversation can end well for him and keeps his mouth shut. He's learnt a lot since coming to work for Lenny.

"Lucky, lucky John Mercer," Patrick says, from behind him, his voice somehow less distinct. He looks around. Patrick is fading, growing insubstantial. John half raises a hand.

"What do you reckon?" Patrick gestures down at himself. "Stick with the classics, I thought."

"Yeah," John says, oddly regretful. "It works." Patrick smiles at him, one last time.

"What did you say?" Lenny says from the corridor, turning to look at him.

"Nothing," John says. He follows Lenny out.


End file.
